


Thank You for the Chocolate

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 15:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20910086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: In which Arthur keeps coming back to Mombasa and Eames doesn't have a goddamn clue why.





	Thank You for the Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> Translation to Chinese available [here](http://www.mtslash.me/thread-329482-1-1.html)!

The first time Arthur turns up at Eames’ door, Eames thinks he might be in a dream.  
  
“Hello,” he says. It seems like a polite thing to do, even if Arthur is a projection. He smiles at Arthur and tries to remember how he got here.  
  
The odd thing is, he remembers exactly how he got here. This morning, he woke up here, in his flat in Mombasa. The sun was shining on his face even though it was barely ten in the morning. He got up from the bed and tried to close the curtains, but the goddamn things were stuck, so he crawled back, had a perfectly nice but emotionally unsatisfying wank and slept for another hour, the sun on his face. He wouldn’t have minded the sun, of course not, the Brits who hate the sun usually don’t end up lingering in places like Mombasa, because there’re options like, you know, Cardiff. But the thing is that last night, he played poker until it was a bit late, maybe three in the morning, drank much more than he should these days, and thought about hitting on a guy with a very nice suit, dark hair, sharp narrow eyes and nice, lean shoulders. The boy reminded him of someone, but he was a bit too drunk to remember whom. He chose against it, at the end. Too much of a hassle.  
  
“This isn’t a dream,” he says now, to Arthur, who’s still standing at his doorstep.  
  
“No,” Arthur says. “Can I come in?”  
  
Eames blinks. “Why?”  
  
“I want to talk to you,” Arthur says, staring at him. He stares back. Then Arthur frowns, seeming to remember something. “It’s about a job.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. Of course it’s about the job. There’s no other explanation for Arthur showing up at his doorstep, unless someone they both know and care about has died. There’s only one person who fits that category, since Eames would never admit caring about Cobb and Arthur only snorts when Eames says Yusuf’s name. “Ariadne’s alright?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, nodding towards the doorway that Eames is still kind of blocking. Not intentionally, though. It’s just an old habit. “May I?”  
  
“Of course,” Eames says and steps aside. This is weird. He can’t process this level of weirdness this early in the morning. It’s not even goddamn three in the afternoon yet. He’s only had two cups of coffee today. He closes the door after Arthur’s walked past him, then passes Arthur, goes to the kitchen and starts making coffee. “So, what’s it about?” he asks, when he hears Arthur’s footsteps coming closer.  
  
“Well, I just thought,” Arthur says slowly, as if he’s not sure what he thought, “do you know Eva Nilsson? She called me about a job. I’m wondering if I ought to take it.”  
  
“Sure,” Eames says. Two more minutes and they’ll have coffee. Then all this is going to make sense. “You came here to ask me whether I know Eva Nilsson?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Okay. Yeah, I know her. We aren’t friends or anything but… she’s good. But a smart-ass. Maybe even worse than you.”  
  
Arthur tilts his head a little to the side.  
  
“Not that I don’t love that in you, darling.”  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says, his voice perfectly steady.  
  
“Anyway, I know there’s some talk about her, but honestly, I think that’s just because some lads can’t bear it when there’s a woman clearly more competent than them. If the job is good, you should take it.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, turns and walks to the living room. The coffee has finished running. Eames pours it in two relatively clean-looking mugs and ignores the impulse to run after Arthur and make sure he doesn’t find something he can later use against Eames. Socks lying underneath the sofa, perhaps. Or the laptop on the coffee table. Eames didn’t bother to close the tabs when he went to open the door. He doesn’t understand why the fuck not. Arthur’s the last person he wants to inform about the fact that he’s watching _Winnie the Pooh_ in Russian. He only started it because he was on a job in Moscow and his team mates told him his accent was funny. Now he’s just addicted.  
  
“So,” Arthur says, when Eames walks in to find him staring at the laptop and passes him the cup of coffee, “this is your place in Mombasa.”  
  
“Yeah. This is it.”  
  
“It’s different than I pictured it.”  
  
“Really?” Eames asks, trying to imagine why the hell Arthur would picture his place in Mombasa. “Different how?”  
  
“I thought -,” Arthur says and makes a vague gesture, apparently trying to point at everything at once. “There’s a lot.”  
  
“A lot of what?” Eames asks, taking a sip of his coffee. This is surprisingly funny, watching Arthur to get uncomfortable in the middle of Eames’ living room and then to try to hide it.  
  
“I don’t know. But the colour on the walls, it suits you.”  
  
The walls are bright yellow. “Thank you, darling.”  
  
“You have a lot of books.”  
  
“I read.”  
  
“About…” Arthur says and peers at Eames’ bookshelf. “War history?”  
  
“A guilty pleasure of mine.”  
  
“And romance.”  
  
“Not so guilty,” Eames says. “Who wouldn’t love a bit of a nice little romance?”  
  
“You really read these,” Arthur says, picking a book and staring at its cover. The book seems to be _The Dangerous Lover in the Woods_, a sequel to _The Dangerous Lover at the Lake._ “Is this how you learned how to flirt? No wonder you’re so good at it.”  
  
Eames opens his mouth and then closes it. Sometimes he thinks Arthur’s trying to be funny, but he can never tell for sure. Maybe it’s safer to stick with drinking his coffee.  
  
Actually, now that he thinks about it, the guy who he almost hit on last night looked a little like Arthur. What a funny coincidence.  
  
“Should I?” Arthur says, nodding at the book at his hand and then cocking an eyebrow at Eames. “Maybe I’d learn something, too.”  
  
“No,” Eames says, “absolutely not. You wouldn’t learn anything. Unless you want to become a dangerous lover in the woods.”  
  
“I guess not in the woods,” Arthur says, and there it is, the supposed attempt of humour. Eames smiles a little, just to try it. Arthur smiles back immediately and then freezes as if he slipped a state secret or something.  
  
No, not that. Arthur would be perfectly fine slipping state secrets, and he’d look cooler than anyone else while he was doing it. He wouldn’t fucking _blink._  
  
“So,” Eames says, “nice for you to drop by. To ask about Eva. Were you in the area?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “in Switzerland.”  
  
Eames blinks. “In Switzerland?”  
  
“I have chocolate,” Arthur says, then starts going through his bag. “Here,” he says, pulling something out. Eames half-expects a gun but it’s a bar of chocolate. Arthur gives it to him, placing it in his hand carefully, as if Eames might drop it. “It’s supposed to be good,” Arthur says.  
  
“Didn’t you try it?” Eames asks, his voice perfectly normal. He’s a goddamn professional, for fuck’s sake. He can fake not being shocked. Arthur brought him _chocolate._ From fucking _Switzerland._  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Arthur glares at him. Maybe Arthur just doesn’t like chocolate. Or maybe Arthur likes chocolate too much and can’t afford to take a bite because he’s afraid of not being able to squeeze himself into those impossible trousers again. Eames doesn’t know but he fully intends to find out.  
  
“Well, we’ll have to try it now,” Eames says. “Get your prying nose out of my bookshelf and come to the kitchen.”  
  
“I only wanted to know what you read,” Arthur says but follows him anyway.  
  
“Of course you did,” Eames says, then watches as Arthurs sits at the table and pushes an empty plate and a week’s newspapers aside to set his cup of coffee on it. “Sorry about the mess. I would’ve done something about that if you had let me know you were going to drop by.”  
  
“I’ll let you know the next time,” Arthur says.  
  
_Fucking hell._ Eames bites his lip. It’s not like there’s going to be a next time, is it? Arthur doesn’t just _drop by _at Eames’ place. But Arthur’s looking at him, deadly serious or so it seems, and he doesn’t dare to laugh.  
  
“Okay,” he says and sits at the table, facing Arthur. This is the fucking weirdest thing that has happened to him since… well, probably since he tried having sex in a pool three months ago and almost drowned. But in a good way. “So, how have you been?”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says, “thank you for asking.”  
  
Eames takes a sip of his coffee. “Missing Cobb?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says and then seems to draw in a deep breath. “A little. Yeah.”  
  
“I suppose he’s happy with his life now.”  
  
“He sounds happy.”  
  
“And the kids are fine.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says.  
  
“I bet he misses you, though. He should. You kept him alive when he was a fucking mess.”  
  
“No, I didn’t. I just helped a little.”  
  
“But you were so close. Did you ever –“  
  
He almost regrets asking, when Arthur seems to choke on his coffee.  
  
“What?” Arthur asks when he’s finished coughing, glaring at Eames, but there’s something wild in his eyes now. Maybe he’s genuinely thinks it’s outrageous that Eames thought about it. Maybe he’s angry because it’s not Eames’ business at all, and Eames _knows_ that, thank you very much, it’s just that Arthur’s sitting in his_ kitchen. _He made Arthur _coffee._ Surely he’s earned the right to ask. And it’s not like he hasn’t wondered.  
  
“Want me to spell it out for you?” he asks.  
  
“No,” Arthur says quickly, then clears his throat. “No, we didn’t. It wasn’t like that. Not at all.”  
  
“You don’t fancy him,” Eames says. His voice is still light and easy. Great. Maybe Arthur doesn’t notice that he’s sweating a little.  
  
“I don’t -,” Arthur stops and takes a sharp breath. “It’s not about that. Mal was my –“  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says. He knows Arthur loved Mal, and he really doesn’t want Arthur to start thinking about that now, it’d be just uncomfortable, and what would Eames do then? Pat Arthur on the shoulder? Pass him a napkin to dry his tears? Arthur would probably dissect him for that. “I just thought, maybe after she –“  
  
“No,” Arthur says firmly, then something seems to shift in his eyes. “I thought Cobb was straight. Don’t you… did you… you didn’t…”  
  
No, Eames didn’t, but he enjoys watching Arthur squirm a little, probably picturing Cobb with Eames, maybe here in Mombasa, right there on the sofa, and oh, the way Arthur stares at him now, so confused and almost_ hurt. _“He’s not my type.”  
  
Arthur fucking _sighs,_ then seems to pull himself together a little. “Straight?”  
  
“Yeah, that too,” Eames says. “And, you know. I like over-competent assholes who buy Swiss chocolate but don’t eat it because they’re afraid they mightn’t get their fit ass squeezed into their fancy trousers anymore.”  
  
Arthur blinks, glancing at the chocolate bar Eames is still holding. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Eames says, ripping the wrapping and taking a piece of the chocolate. It’s good. It’s really good. “Just try it,” he says, waving the chocolate in front of Arthur’s face.  
  
Arthur watches him for a moment, then takes the chocolate. “Okay.”  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Arthur leaves. Eames looks through the window as Arthur crosses the street, glances around, probably tries to figure out how to get a taxi in here. He should’ve pitied the poor idiot. He could’ve taken Arthur to the hotel, or to the airport, or wherever Arthur’s going. He takes a deep breath and closes the curtains. They smell of dust and maybe a little of red wine, which is odd, because he thought he washed them after the last incident.  
  
Maybe he should’ve offered Arthur wine.  
  
He laughs and gets back to _Winnie the Pooh.  
  
  
_**  
  
There’s a knock on the door.  
  
Eames grunts and rolls onto his back. It’s too goddamn early for anyone to be knocking on his door. It’s barely midday and he’s been asleep less than eleven hours after the plane landed on Mombasa yesterday afternoon. He’s just spent four weeks forging an old man in goddamn Glasgow and he has a phantom ache in his joints and there’s no way he’s going to get out of the bed and answer the door.  
  
He puts a pillow on his head, but the knocking won’t stop. Well, maybe if he goes to tell the fucker to fucking fuck off, he can get back to sleep. He checks that he’s wearing boxers and thinks about putting on a t-shirt but can’t bother. Besides, he’s apparently wearing one sock, which is a bonus even though the sock has a hole and his big toe is poking through it. He sighs, drags himself to the door and grabs the gun on the way, just to be safe.  
  
“Hello,” Arthur says, standing at Eames’ doorstep.  
  
“Hello,” Eames says, ignoring the look on Arthur’s face as Arthur’s eyes fall on him and end up on his one sock. “Don’t you know what time it is?”  
  
“Half three in the afternoon?” Arthur says and nods towards the gun Eames’ holding behind his back. “Nice for you to welcome me.”  
  
“Oh, fuck off,” Eames says and steps aside so that Arthur can come in. He closes the door, and Arthur wriggles the coat off his shoulders and throws it on the back of a chair on the way to the kitchen. Arthur’s shirt has wet patches at the armpits and one at the back where the fabric clings into the very nice but subtle set of Arthur’s back muscles. Eames has rarely seen Arthur without a shirt. It’s almost as if Arthur’s shy. “Your clothes are ridiculous,” he says, following Arthur to the kitchen and loading up the coffee machine. “It’s fucking million degrees out there.”  
  
“I came straight from work.”  
  
“Work? Here?” Eames asks, blinking. “In Mombasa? In Kenya? In East Africa?”  
  
“In Singapore,” Arthur says, pushing his elbows to the table and rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He seems tired, which is very uncharacteristic.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. Maybe he should ask what the hell Arthur’s doing in Mombasa, coming straight from a job, soaking in his stupid suit and looking like he needs a week off. But he’s pretty sure Arthur’s going to tell him eventually. And also, it might not be completely uncomfortable to drink coffee with Arthur and have a nice little chat, now that Eames has got out of the bed anyway. “So,” he says, pours them coffee and then comes to sit at the table, “I heard you took the job with Eva Nilsson.”  
  
“Who told you that?” Arthur asks, frowning.  
  
“You did. You sent me a text.”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur says, clearing his throat. “Right. Sorry about that. I was… drunk.”  
  
“Drunk? The text said, and I quote, _I just wished to inform you that I have accepted a work offer with the Swedish person we had a conversation about._ That’s you drunk texting?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, glaring at him. “What should I do instead, send dick pics?”  
  
“Well,” Eames says, “I do.”  
  
Arthur seems appropriately shocked at the thought. Eames shifts in his chair, only then he’s got to adjust his balls a little. Well, there’s a table in between them. Arthur won’t notice.  
  
“Only to people who know how to appreciate them,” Eames adds, when Arthur’s still looking shocked.  
  
“You’ve never sent one for me,” Arthur says, a little flushed. The goddamn idiot is still sweating in his shirt, even though the sun is shining right on his lovely back through the window.  
  
“You’re hot, you wanker,” Eames says, “just take your shirt off.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. Unbelievable. “I think I’m going to take a week off.”  
  
“How nice,” Eames says, taking a sip of his coffee and watching Arthur get rid of his shirt, only it turns out Arthur unbuttons it half-way through his chest and then leaves it there. “It’s too hot to drink coffee. I think we’ve got to wait until it’s cooled off.”  
  
“The latest job was -,” Arthur says, staring at Eames and not even touching his coffee, how wise, “it was dull and I still almost got shot. I called Cobb from the airport and he told me to take a break.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, trying to steal quick glances at Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s not shaving it, is he? Or _waxing _it? Who even _does _that? “So, where’re you going?”  
  
“I thought,” Arthur says, “maybe Mombasa.”  
  
“But you’re already here.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, “I just came. After I had decided to come here.”  
  
“Well, at least it’s not cold in here,” Eames says. “Where’re you staying?”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds. “At the hotel.”  
  
“Sounds nice,” Eames says. “Which one?”  
  
“I haven’t booked a room yet,” Arthur says.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. There’s a white scar going above Arthur’s collarbone and reaching for his throat. It looks like someone would’ve dipped the edge of a knife there. Hopefully it wasn’t for sex, because that’d be just crazy. “Well, if you want to, I could, I don’t know, recommend something.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “A hotel.”  
  
“Yeah. A hotel. Because you haven’t booked a room yet.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “no, I haven’t._ Great._ I’d appreciate your recommendation.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Eames says.  
  
“Well,” Arthur says, “this coffee is too hot to drink. It was nice to see you, Eames, but I think I should go book a hotel.” He stands up, the shirt hanging on his shoulders. The wet patches under his armpits are wider now. He doesn’t quite look Eames in the eyes. Maybe he figured out that Eames was wondering if the nice scar on his chest is sex-related.  
  
“Wait,” Eames says and then wonders, why the fuck. But it’s too late already. Arthur’s frozen, obviously waiting as he told Arthur to, first time for everything. “The coffee’s going to cool off soon. Maybe in an hour. You could drink it cold.”  
  
“I could?” Arthur says.  
  
“And maybe you’d like to take a bath,” Eames says. “A cold bath. Not that I don’t like you all sweaty, but, you know. If you came straight from the flight.”  
  
“I did,” Arthur says. “I’m pretty uncomfortable.”  
  
“I can even lend clothes, if you don’t have anything that suits the weather.”  
  
Arthur eyes him suspiciously. He gives Arthur his best smile, and Arthur falters a little, which is strange. He always thought Arthur was a bit immune to his charm.  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says. “If you think so.”  
  
“I don’t mind.”  
  
“I could just go to the hotel.”  
  
“You don’t even know in which hotel you’re staying,” Eames says and stands up. Maybe he’s going to make Arthur wear nothing but boxers. That’d suit the weather alright. They could sit on Eames’ sofa and watch _Winnie the Pooh_ side by side in nothing but boxers. That’d be nice. Eames is almost certain that Arthur speaks fluent Russian anyway, the wanker.  
  
“Come on, darling,” he says and takes Arthur to the bathroom, draws a bath, throws a towel at Arthur’s face and then goes and leaves Arthur to bathe in solitary, which is a shame. It’s a small comfort, though, when ten minutes later Arthur comes to stand at the living room doorway, the towel wrapped around his waist, dripping water onto Eames’ floor.  
  
“Hi, darling,” Eames says, pausing _Winnie the Pooh._ “Are you finished?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “You mentioned something about clothes.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Eames says, standing up. If he bumps his shoulder against Arthur’s naked, wet one on the way to the bathroom, it’s just a happy coincident. Arthur follows him, not dropping the towel, which is too bad, but at least Eames already got a good look on his back. “You look nice, by the way.”  
  
Arthur stares at him.  
  
“I meant that I don’t often see you naked.”  
  
“You never see me naked,” Arthur says in the same tone that he uses on a job when he corrects Eames after Eames can’t get his math right.  
  
“Well, I’m an optimist, right?” Eames says. “Do you have boxers?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Arthur says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looks gorgeous like that, all wet and naked under his towel, _Eames’ _towel, and looking a little uncomfortable to talk about commodities like _boxers._ “I should do laundry. Or buy new ones.”  
  
“My boxers are going to be a bit big for you, honey,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur glares at him. Oh, this is brilliant.  
  
“At least it’s not going to get cramped down there,” Eames says, throwing a pair of boxers at Arthur. Then he pulls a t-shirt out of the closet. “Do you think this might fit?”  
  
“It’s purple,” Arthur says, “and it has Wonder Woman on it.”  
  
“I love this t-shirt,” Eames says and pushes it in Arthur’s hands, kind of hoping Arthur would drop the towel. Sadly, Arthur doesn’t. “Want me to stay and check you can figure out how to put on normal clothes like these?”  
  
“Don’t I get trousers?”  
  
“No. No trousers on my sofa.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Arthur says nicely enough that Eames falters a little and does what he’s told.  
  
It turns out that he might’ve overlooked a few things, including how ridiculous Arthur looks in his clothes. Ridiculous, but in a very nice way. It’s great that he’s not attracted to Arthur at all, or actually, it’s great that even if he is, a little, because who the hell wouldn’t be, he can hide it. He can stare at Arthur sitting on his sofa, drinking the cold coffee, wearing nothing but Eames’ boxers that _are _too big for him, and Eames’ shirt that isn’t, because it shrunk in the washing machine some time ago, or maybe, maybe Eames bought a shirt that was too small because there wasn’t a right size available and he was pretty excited about Wonder Woman at the time. He can stare at Arthur and drink his own cup of cold coffee and not say something embarrassing about the way Arthur looks.  
  
“You look good,” he says, “in my clothes.”  
  
“I knew you’d be weird about this,” Arthur says.  
  
“The scar,” Eames says, “on your collarbone. How did you get it?”  
  
“Fuck off,” Arthur says, sprawling his legs, which is just crazy, because Arthur never _sprawls. _Maybe he’s getting comfortable. On Eames’ sofa. What a disturbing thought.  
  
“Anyway, what’re you going to do? In Mombasa, I mean?”  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe you could show me around.”  
  
“I’d love to, darling,” Eames says, “but I already have plans. I’m going to be in bed.”  
  
Arthur gives him a funny glance. Well, if Arthur thinks there’s going to be someone else in Eames’ bed as well, that’s his problem, isn’t it?  
  
“But I guess we could go grab a drink or something,” Eames says, when it becomes apparent Arthur’s not going to ask what Eames is about to do in bed, “later this week. If we have time.”  
  
“Sounds fine,” Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The next evening, Eames has got out of bed alright and has eaten the breakfast before there’s a knock on his door. He takes his gun and opens the door.  
  
“You’re wearing my t-shirt,” he says to Arthur, who’s standing at the doorstep.  
  
“Well, you told me to return it later,” Arthur says and nods towards the garment bag he’s holding. “I brought my suit.”  
  
“Why the hell would you do that?”  
  
“I thought we might go for a drink.”  
  
“Really?” Eames asks, frowning. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”  
  
“It’s eight o’clock in the evening.”  
  
“I haven’t even had lunch.”  
  
“We could go to eat something,” Arthur says, slowly.  
  
“No, don’t worry,” Eames says, stepping aside. “Come on in. I think I have noodles or something. And then we can go and have that drink so that you can get on with your evening. What’ve you been up to?”  
  
“Nothing exciting,” Arthur says. “And you?”  
  
“I’ve been in bed,” Eames says. That’s true. He’s been in bed, sleeping, eating chocolate because apparently he’s addicted now that Arthur brought him a bar from Switzerland almost two months ago, reading _A Dangerous Lover in an Elevator, _rubbing the old scar on his shoulder that always itches, and trying to find the courage to call his mother.  
  
“Oh,” Arthur says, glancing around in the flat as if he’s expecting to find someone else lurking around.  
  
“Alone,” Eames says.  
  
“Oh,” Arthur says again but in a different tone.  
  
“Sleeping, mostly,” Eames says. “Are you hungry?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Will you eat if I put something on a plate for you?”  
  
Arthur frowns for a second and then nods.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, goes to the kitchen and starts making something that might resemble a lunch. “So, this is an interesting choice for a vacation. It’s not like you know anyone in Mombasa.”  
  
Arthur follows him to the kitchen, hovers a foot away from him and watches him emptying a bag of noodles to the kettle. “I just thought it’d be nice.”  
  
He glances at Arthur. His t-shirt really looks good on Arthur. It makes Arthur look like a person, like someone who might take a vacation and come to visit a friend and maybe hang in their kitchen and do small talk and possibly flirt a little. Not with Eames, of course. Arthur never flirts with him. That’s how he knows that even if he might find Arthur attractive, a little, objectively speaking, and even if, under the right circumstances, he might be persuaded to, say, sleep with Arthur, Arthur’s not into that at all. Arthur’s probably never even thought about that. It’s not that Arthur isn’t gay, because he _is_, Eames is certain of that. It's just that Arthur’s not interested in Eames.  
  
“You like that t-shirt?” Eames asks, when Arthur’s still staring at his hands for some reason. They’re just hands. They’re Eames’ hands, tanned and calloused and hairy and there might a tiny wart on his index finger.  
  
Arthur removes his gaze from Eames’ hands and starts inspecting Eames’ cupboard doors. “It makes me feel like I’m on a vacation.” Arthur’s silent for a second. Eames realises he forgot to buy salt. “Makes me feel like I’m somebody else.”  
  
“Why the hell would you want to be somebody else?” Hopefully Arthur doesn’t like salty food.  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says in a voice that clearly suggests he knows.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, turning to him. “Now, we wait. In ten minutes, we’re going to have food.”  
  
“Noodles.”  
  
“Yes, that’s what I said,” Eames says, “food. So, tell me what you’re expecting of this evening.”  
  
Arthur blinks.  
  
“Do you want to get absolutely wasted? Gamble a bit? Maybe hook up with someone? Because I know places. I just need to know what you’re looking for.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says slowly.  
  
“We can just have a drink, if you want,” Eames says, because there’s something funny in the way Arthur looks at him, like Arthur’s wondering if Eames got it all wrong. Eames never gets things wrong. “You and me. In a dull little bar where you can’t lose all your money or find a stranger to have kinky sex with.”  
  
“That sounds good,” Arthur says, looking relieved. Well, Arthur doesn’t like gambling, then.  
  
“Kinky sex?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says quickly, then seems to realise Eames is laughing. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”  
  
“Remember that you came to me,” Eames says, patting Arthur on the shoulder. It’s a very nice shoulder, which shouldn’t be surprising at all. He rubs his thumb on Arthur’s collarbone through the fabric. Weird that Arthur doesn’t tell him to back off. “But you can’t wear this,” he says, poking his index finger at the shirt somewhere around Arthur’s left nipple. Arthur flinches but maybe not uncomfortably. “This is for my eyes only.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“And you aren’t going to wear a suit, either,” Eames says. “We’re going to figure out something.”  
  
“Your clothes are too big for me.”  
  
“I know, darling,” Eames says.  
  
Later, he wonders if perhaps he ought to have let Arthur wear the suit. Arthur looks kind of funny wearing one of Eames’ better shirts and a pair of very good trousers Eames has only had for maybe a year. It’s not even the odd colours, it’s more about the fact that the clothes _are _too big for Arthur, and every time Arthur shifts, he looks like he’s wondering why the hell he’s wearing a tent. He’s very serious about it, too, which only makes it look funnier.  
  
Eames bites his lip. Arthur’s going to have hard time trying to hit on someone tonight. Eames doesn’t say that aloud, though. He made a remark like that earlier, when they were eating noodles at his kitchen, and Arthur immediately started a vaguely work-related argument that got uncomfortably heated, even though Eames didn’t have a clue what it was about.  
  
“What?” Arthur says now, glaring at Eames.  
  
“What?” Eames says, glaring right back at him.  
  
“You were looking at me.”  
  
“You were looking at _me._”  
  
Arthur gives him a look that obviously says _seriously?_ He answers with a look that says _yes._  
  
“I don’t fucking know why I thought it’d be a good idea to come to see you,” Arthur says.  
  
“Me neither,” Eames says. Maybe he should go home and leave Arthur be. But then again, what if someone other than him sees how attractive Arthur is, this funny, deadly serious man in clothes two sizes too large? What if someone comes to hit on Arthur? It’d be so weird. And Eames would be at home, thinking about Arthur having sex somewhere nearby, like, at the same city. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry about your clothes. You look so stupid.”  
  
For some reason, Arthur only seems to get angrier. “No, I don’t.”  
  
“Yes, you do, darling,” Eames says, then raises his hand and tugs at Arthur’s collar. He can sense Arthur building a counter-argument. “Luckily I already think you’re gorgeous.”  
  
Arthur breathes out, warmth lingering on the inside of Eames’ wrist.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says and pats him on the shoulder. “And for my defence, I’d like to point out that you clearly stated you weren’t expecting kinky sex tonight.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Eames –“  
  
“I know, I know,” Eames says and pulls his hand away. “We came here to drink. What’re you having?”  
  
Arthur eyes him funnily but asks for whiskey. He orders two and then looks at Arthur taking sips of his glass. Arthur’s so careful with everything. So good with details. In a little neurotic way, but who cares. Arthur’s probably the only thing that kept Cobb out of prison so long. Cobb doesn’t have a goddamn clue about how lucky he was to have Arthur by his side.  
  
“So,” Arthur says, staring at his glass of whiskey, “what’re you planning to do next?”  
  
“What?” Eames says and clears his throat. “Going to try to sell my secrets? Is that what this is about?”  
  
Arthur grunts. “No. For fuck’s sake, Eames, can’t I just ask?”  
  
“Are you short of jobs?”  
  
“Fucking… No. No, I’m not. I’m pretty rich at the moment, as you know.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, thinking about a weird amount of Saito’s money, still sitting spit in a few of Eames’ carefully chosen bank accounts. And of course, some of it is in a plastic bag under the sofa.  
  
“Do you ever think you’d like to stay in the States?” Arthur asks, eyes fixed on the glass in between his hands. “For a while?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I don’t see why I would.”  
  
Arthur sips his whiskey.  
  
“It’s not like you’ve been there a lot, either,” Eames says, “since you ran away with Cobb.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, not looking at him, “I’m thinking about buying a flat with that money. I thought, maybe there.”  
  
Eames straightens his back. The bar is nice enough, the music isn’t too loud and you can’t see anyone doing drugs. It’s probably just the kind of place that Arthur likes. But maybe they should talk about something else than buying bloody _houses._ It’s just… it’s a bit dull, isn’t it? And he doesn’t want Arthur to think that he’s dull.  
  
“Why’re we talking about this? Are you trying to ask me to come to visit?”  
  
“I just -,” Arthur says. “If you’re around, of course. Why not.”  
  
“Like you were around here. In Mombasa.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. Well, it’s certainly possible that he’s going to be in the States at some point. It’s good to know he can visit Arthur. “So, do you have someone special in the States? Besides Cobb?”  
  
“It sounds like you’re jealous about Cobb.”  
  
“Jealous? Oh, _no._ Of course not, darling. That’d be just ridiculous.”  
  
“So I thought,” Arthur says with a sigh. “I have a mother.”  
  
“What a funny coincidence, so do I.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Well, that’s not exactly impressive.”  
  
“No, I meant that I know where she lives.”  
  
Well, _that’s _impressive. And a little creepy. But in a quite touching way. “Really?”  
  
“I’ve made a few thorough backup checks on you. I have a file about you.”  
  
Eames realises he’s biting back a smile. The air is warm and humid and smells of cigarettes, the whiskey is burning in his throat, and he can’t believe Arthur agreed to wear those clothes in public. “Are you trying to flirt with me, darling?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, looking at him.  
  
So, it turns out Arthur _has _a sense of humour, after all. “Maybe we should go back to my place and shag.”  
  
“Sounds good,” Arthur says.  
  
“You’re brilliant, I hope you know that,” Eames says and pats Arthur on the shoulder. “I’m going to order another. Can I get you anything?”  
  
Arthur stares at him before nodding. “Maybe another whiskey.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says. He kind of wishes Cobb would be here now, just to see the two of them getting along so well, hanging out in a bar in Mombasa as if they’re really friends. He’d like Cobb to bear witness to Arthur sitting nicely next to Eames at the counter, not looking like he’s in a rush anywhere, and then he’d like Cobb to kindly fuck off and leave him and Arthur alone. They’re fine, he and Arthur. Maybe Arthur even likes him a little. Maybe that’s why Arthur came to him.  
  
“So,” he says a little later, when he’s almost finished his third drink and Arthur’s at his fourth, looking at him a little more softly now, but very seriously at the same time. That’s so _Arthur_ it makes him smile.  
  
“So,” Arthur says, frowning. _God_, he’s adorable.  
  
“So,” Eames says, trying to focus on something else than Arthur’s eyes. Arthur’s mouth, perhaps. “So, imagine you’d like me. Imagine you’d fancy me. What do you think would be your favourite thing about me?”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says perfectly seriously, “I like you.”  
  
“Yeah, but I meant, you’ve got to tell me your favourite thing about me.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Don’t look so serious,” Eames says, even though he kind of wants Arthur to look serious, god knows why, “it’s just for the game. Tell me what you’d like about me.”  
  
“I like -,” Arthur says and then takes a deep breath. “You always irritate me.”  
  
“God, Arthur, I asked you to play along –“  
  
“I’m not playing,” Arthur says in a somewhat desperate voice, but then seems to decide otherwise. “I meant, it goes through my skin. It’s like, you’re this itch I really need to scratch.”  
  
Eames opens his mouth to ask if that’s the best thing he could come up with. How dull _is _that? Arthur could’ve said anything, like, like maybe something about Eames’ very nice and very strong arms?  
  
“In a good way,” Arthur says, “I need to scratch it in a good way. Because, you know, I tend to get bored of people.”  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Eames says. “Not you, though. I could never get bored of you frowning at me.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything to that. The moment lingers. Maybe Eames is getting a little drunk.  
  
“I’ll tell you what I like in you,” Eames says, drinking a little more. “I like it that you’re totally transparent. I always know what you mean. I probably know before you what you’re going to say next. You’re so _predictable._ But in a good way. It’s sweet. It’s very sweet, darling.”  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says very slowly.  
  
“Also, I might admit that I was a bit surprised when you appeared at my doorstep for the first time,” Eames says. “And the second.”  
  
“I just missed you.”  
  
Eames laughs. “And I never was certain that you have a sense of humour. It’s just that sometimes you say the funniest things and you _look _like you’re serious about them, but I thought, maybe you’re just trying to be sarcastic and are very cool about it. And now I know.”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“That you’ve got an excellent sense of humour, darling.”  
  
Arthur only stares at him, blinking.  
  
“Anyway, I think maybe we should get back home,” Eames says, “I mean, my place. You only asked me for one drink. I think there’s been four or something.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” Arthur says. “Eames, I –“  
  
“You can stay for a night,” Eames promises, because he’s feeling very nice and he’s known Arthur for a long time and Arthur’s got many excellent qualities, some of which he couldn’t name right now but then again, he’s drunk, isn’t he? He leans forward to grab Arthur’s shoulder, brushes his fingertips on the fabric of his own shirt that Arthur’s wearing. It’s going to smell like Arthur later, and how funny is that? How funny. He should laugh at it. “My sofa is surprisingly comfortable,” he tells Arthur, because Arthur still looks a little worried. He didn’t think Eames would make him sleep on the floor, did he? Of course not. Eames wouldn’t do that. Eames isn’t _dumb._ He knows Arthur has _standards._  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, “thank you.” Eames is a little surprised, anyway, when Arthur actually follows him home, rinses his mouth with water and Eames’ toothpaste and lies down on the sofa, knees folded because that’s the only way he’ll fit. Eames lingers at the doorway only for a moment, leaning his shoulder against the frame. Arthur’s got rid of the shirt and his bare chest is falling and rising with his breathing. He looks very human. Almost breakable. But no one would want to break Arthur, of course not. If someone did, Eames would come for them. With, like, guns. A lot of guns. Because no one is allowed to hurt Arthur. Eames is going to make sure of that. He’s not sure how, though, because Arthur’s so much better than him in so many things, probably including the skill of finding out who’s after him. Arthur has probably already reported all his enemies to the police or, or the _taxman._  
  
It's too bad Arthur doesn’t like Eames that way. Because it’d be nice to kiss Arthur. Arthur would be so serious about it. A goddamn lunatic.  
  
In the morning, Arthur’s gone. Eames stares at the empty sofa for a second. He has a throbbing headache and a vague feeling that he thought about something stupid last night, something about how nice it would be to kiss Arthur. And something about the taxman. God, he hates the taxman.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It's not like Eames has missed Arthur. Of course not. That’d be like he would’ve expected Arthur to appear at his door again, which he definitely hasn’t. The thought just happens to cross his mind, when someone knocks on his door and interrupts his nap. He checks that he’s wearing pants and goes to open the door. It’s not going to be Arthur. Maybe the lonely neighbour again, or maybe the man he slept with before he took the job in Iceland, or maybe even Yusuf. But not Arthur.  
  
Eames opens the door. It’s Arthur.  
  
“Hello,” Arthur says. He’s holding a suitcase and wearing his suit, which is wrinkled and has an odd stain on the elbow.  
  
“Is that blood?”  
  
“No.” Arthur glances at his elbow. “Maybe. Not mine.”  
  
“Thank god,” Eames says, “because if you dragged yourself to my place expecting that I’m going to draw you a hot bath and tie your wounds up and make you tea… You aren’t actually hurt, are you?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says. Eames glares at him and he doesn’t flinch, so maybe he means it. That’s good. Because if Arthur _was _hurt and Eames had to watch him being all hurt and broken… He doesn’t want to think about that. Arthur’s always alright. Never broken. “I came straight from the airport,” Arthur says in a quiet voice. “That’s why I’m a bit… unravelled.”  
  
“I didn’t notice,” Eames says and steps aside from the doorway. “I’ll make you tea. Do you want a bath?”  
  
“No, thank you,” Arthur says, following him inside and to the kitchen. “You don’t need to, Eames.”  
  
“I know I don’t need to. Are you hungry? I can draw you a bath and we can eat later, or if you’re hungry now –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says in a somewhat heavy voice. Eames doesn’t look at him. There’s tea in here somewhere, he doesn’t know where but there’s just no way he’s finished all the packages again. “I haven’t been here in two months,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah, I noticed.”  
  
“I wasn’t sure…” Arthur takes a deep breath and pauses. “I didn’t know if I… Maybe I should’ve called you first.”  
  
“No need for that,” Eames says and finally finds the tea packages in the upper shelf, behind cocoa and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. “So, what’ve you been doing?”  
  
Arthur takes a step closer to him. He puts the kettle on. “What’ve I been doing?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You don’t know.”  
  
“Well,” Eames says slowly. Surely it doesn’t count as _thinking about Arthur _if Eames has, in a few occasions, made certain he knows where Arthur is and what Arthur is doing. That’s just _practical._ Not that Eames would be _interested _in Arthur’s doings or anything else concerning Arthur. “I know you did a job in St. Petersburg.”  
  
Arthur’s silent for a moment. “You flew from Reykjavik two days ago.”  
  
“Yes, I did. Sit down, you look ridiculous just standing there.”  
  
Arthur sits down at the kitchen table. He still looks ridiculous. His hair is beginning to unravel, he has black rings under his eyes, he keeps chewing on his lower lip, and the goddamn suit is too much for Eames’ kitchen. Arthur should’ve at least taken the coat off.  
  
“You must like Mombasa a lot,” Eames say, bringing Arthur a cup of tea. “Always coming back here.”  
  
Arthur stirs the tea, the spoon clattering against the edges of the mug.  
  
“Not that I can blame you. God, it was great to be in Reykjavik, you know, where I could wear clothes without sweating through them. But I’m glad to be back. So, the only thing I don’t understand about you staying here is how you can bear to dress like that.” He glances at Arthur. Arthur looks back at him, frowning. “Anyway, would you like a sandwich?”  
  
“You don’t –“  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
He can see Arthur swallow. “Thank you.”  
  
“I just hope you like them the way I make them, because I’m not changing my habits for you,” Eames says, turning his back to Arthur again. “You left quite suddenly at the last time. When you stayed at my place after we had a drink.”  
  
“Four drinks,” Arthur says slowly. “I woke up early and didn’t know if you wanted to find me here in the morning.”  
  
Eames blinks. Well, that was honest. “I wouldn’t have minded.”  
  
“It was nice of you to let me stay.”  
  
“You can stay again if you like,” Eames says and clears his throat. He can hear Arthur sipping his tea. It's weird, being polite like this. But Arthur started it. Actually, Arthur started everything, coming to Mombasa that one time months ago, without a warning or an explanation about what the hell he was doing here. And then doing it again. And then fucking off in the morning after they got drunk together. Really, it’s Arthur’s fault, if lately, Eames has been thinking about him oddly often. Which he hasn’t.  
  
He takes a deep breath and glances over his shoulder. Arthur’s holding his cup of tea and staring at Eames over it.  
  
“I mean,” Eames says, bracing himself. “In case you don’t know where you’re going to be staying yet. You could just stay here.”  
  
“I don’t want to be a burden.”  
  
“Darling, you aren’t a fucking _burden._ You’re… How’s your Swedish, anyway? Because I’ve been watching Harry Potter movies in Swedish. We could watch them together.”  
  
“I don’t speak Swedish,” Arthur says. “I guess I could sleep on your sofa.”  
  
“Yeah, exactly,” Eames says, gives Arthur the sandwich and sits down to watch Arthur eating it. “Or if you want to go to a bar, we can do that.”  
  
“That’s not necessary,” Arthur says. He looks funny when he’s eating, a little worried. Maybe he knows he looks funny. “Maybe not today. I’m a little tired.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “because you just finished a job and then had to fly straight to Mombasa.”  
  
Arthur just looks at him.  
  
“Well,” Eames says and stands up, “I’ll draw you that bath and then you can sit there and think about how lucky you are that you know someone in Mombasa.”  
  
“I only know you.”  
  
“Yeah. I meant that. Obviously.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, when Eames turns his back to walk to the bathroom. “Thank you.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like I like you or anything,” Eames says and goes to draw the bath. It’s funny, he thinks as he watches the steam rising from the tub filling with hot water. He’s not annoyed at all that Arthur came. Actually, it’s almost like he’s glad. Or relieved. He _knew _that nothing went actually _wrong _when Arthur was here the last time, but Arthur _did_ fuck off in the morning without waking Eames up, and that’s just impolite, isn’t it? It seems like something Arthur would’ve done if he had slept with Eames and then regretted it afterwards, but that wasn’t what happened _at all_, and besides, Eames doesn’t think about having sex with Arthur. Of course not. That’d be just crazy. Even though the sex would probably be brilliant.  
  
The bath tub is full. Eames wonders briefly if he ought to put some clothes on now that he has Arthur sitting in the kitchen, but then again, Arthur already saw him in his pants and didn’t say anything. And the air is hot and humid. He should probably try to convince Arthur to walk around naked. That’d make Arthur a little more comfortable. Perhaps after the bath.  
  
But after the bath, Arthur comes to hover at the kitchen doorway wrapped in a towel, and Eames has problems finishing his sandwich. He opens his mouth to suggest that Arthur might like to be naked for the rest of the evening, just because of the weather, and what comes out is: “Do you need to lent something?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “If you don’t mind.”  
  
“I have your Wonder Woman t-shirt somewhere,” Eames says and stands up. It takes a while to find the t-shirt, but Arthur looks happy when Eames finally tosses it at him, so it’s definitely worth it. He finds a clean pair of boxers, too, and then wanders around in the living room while Arthur puts the clothes on. Maybe he’s going soft in the head. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe someone has incepted him. Maybe it’s because he’s not so young anymore and he’s beginning to realize he’s not invincible and needs someone to care about him, which is what his mother tells him every time he calls her. Maybe that’s why it’s _nice _that Arthur’s in his flat, wearing his boxers.  
  
“What’re you doing?”  
  
Eames stops walking a circle. “Nothing.”  
  
“Should I –,” Arthur says, pointing at the sofa.  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Eames says. Arthur sits down on the sofa and pushes his wet hair back from his face. “So, have you seen The Prisoner of Azkaban?”  
  
“Twice,” Arthur says. “It’s fine.”  
  
“Are you sure? Because we could –“  
  
“I’ve never seen it in Swedish.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, sitting down on the sofa next to Arthur. He doesn’t even remember when the last time was that he was sitting on the sofa like this, without clothes, so close to another person that their knees might brush against each other by an accident. Maybe it was when Yusuf got dumped and came to Eames’ place, already drunk, and they watched all the Lord of the Rings movies. But that was different. Yusuf is straight. Not that it matters that Arthur isn’t. Because they’re friends, or something like that, something that doesn’t involve sex. Eames is certain of that. It’s just that he’s staring at Arthur’s bare knees, hairy and funny-looking, and Arthur’s feet on Eames’ carpet, and Eames _knows _Arthur’s knees and feet are gay as hell. And coincidentally, so are Eames’.  
  
Not that he’s exceptionally attracted to Arthur. It’s just that Arthur’s very attractive.  
  
“Maybe we should start the movie,” Arthur says.  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, “yeah, of course. I was just… You’re right.”  
  
He waits the scene in the Shrieking Shack until he presses his knee lightly against Arthur’s. He’s been thinking about it for a while, though. His Swedish seems particularly rusty today and Arthur smells really good, which might be because he used Eames’ shampoo, and anyway Eames can’t stop thinking about Arthur’s knee that’s just _right there._ And it’s a subtle move, isn’t it? It’s so subtle it’s not even a move. Eames just needs to shift a little. If Arthur jumps and pokes him at the face with his elbow or something, Eames can just swear at him and tell him to bloody fucking calm down, because it wasn’t a _move._  
  
Arthur doesn’t jump.  
  
Eames waits for a few seconds and then relaxes. His knee is touching Arthur’s. Arthur’s still looking at the television, probably learning how to speak Swedish, the over-competent bastard. It’s almost like Arthur doesn’t notice the knee-touch.  
  
Then Arthur sighs and shifts on the sofa, so that half of his thigh ends up pressed against Eames’.  
  
Oh. _Oh._ Good _Lord._ It’s probably been _ten years _since Eames has watched a movie with someone’s very handsome and very gay bare thigh pressed against his. This is a bit too much. At least he’s not getting hard, which is probably the last thing he should think about, so he’s not going to think about that, of course not, he’s going to think about Arthur’s knees. And thighs. And toes. And fingers. And the little noises Arthur makes once in a while, almost like he wants to start a conversation with Harry, Hermione and Ron and remembers at the last second that they’re fictional and can’t hear him. Or, maybe, that he doesn’t speak Swedish.  
  
“So,” Eames says when the movie ends and Arthur doesn’t pull his knee away, “are you fluent with Swedish yet?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, staring at the blank television screen with a focused look on his face. “But I could probably say something if I needed to.”  
  
“You’re mad,” Eames says. It comes out a little more affectionate than he meant to but there’s nothing to be done about that. “Darling,” he adds, so that Arthur knows everything’s normal in between them. “You know, sometimes I think you might be a robot.”  
  
“I’m not a robot.”  
  
“Because you know anything and can do anything, and if you don’t, you’ll learn it overnight.”  
  
“Eames, I’m not a robot,” Arthur says, turning his head to look at Eames. Eames tries not to flinch. “I’m definitely not a robot.”  
  
“Prove it. Say something in Swedish.”  
  
“Jag tror att…” Arthur pauses and frowns. Eames laughs. “Stop laughing.”  
  
“That was just brilliant, darling. You’re a robot.”  
  
“Do I look like a robot to you?” Arthur says, turning to Eames and pulling his knee away in the process. That’s a shame, but Eames can’t concentrate on the loss when Arthur’s looking at him like that, crossing his arms over his chest, over Wonder Woman.  
  
“Not exactly,” Eames says. “But it’s great that you came over, because otherwise I would’ve never found out.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it again.  
  
“What did you do in Mombasa, anyway?” Eames asks, even though the fabric of the sofa is suddenly sticking into his skin in a very uncomfortable way, and Arthur’s too close to him, and his skin is too hot, and he misses Iceland. “The first time you came.”  
  
Arthur just stares at him.  
  
“From Switzerland.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“And brought me chocolate. What did you do? When you weren’t drinking coffee with me?”  
  
“I…” Arthur says slowly and then seems to decide something. “I stayed in my hotel room. Well, I had a dinner, too. At the hotel.”  
  
“You stayed in the hotel room.”  
  
“There was this novel I had wanted to read,” Arthur says, chewing on his lower lip. “I can’t remember what it was. But it was nice. I just… I read.”  
  
“Because you don’t really have friends in Mombasa,” Eames says. “Only me.”  
  
“Yusuf’s here.”  
  
“Yusuf says he’s not heard of you since the Fischer job.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Well, I check what he’s doing once in a while. Just to keep up with his life.”  
  
“So, you spy on him when you remember he exists, and you think that makes the two of you friends,” Eames says as lightly as he can. “That doesn’t sound like friendship, darling. Actually, that sounds a little lonely.”  
  
“It’s none of your business,” Arthur says, sulking, which is so familiar it makes Eames feel a little more confident about all this. Even though it _is _still a little distracting that Arthur’s sitting on Eames’ sofa, barely dressed, his hair wild.  
  
“Sorry, darling,” Eames says, watching the way the corner of Arthur’s mouth twitches. Arthur’s probably trying to decide if he ought to stay angry at Eames or just give up already. “What I meant to say was _good for me_. Really. Because I loved the chocolate you brought me. And I don’t particularly mind you sitting on my sofa, looking like that.”  
  
Arthur swallows. Eames does not stare at his throat. For long. “Like what?”  
  
“Like you don’t know what to do at any situation,” Eames says.  
  
“I _don’t _–“  
  
“Well, you seem like it.”  
  
“That’s because I’m good at my job,” Arthur says, leaning the back of his head against the sofa. He looks tired. He looks like a person, an actual person that could get lonely and sad and heartbroken.  
  
Eames bites his lip. What the actual fuck is he thinking about again? Arthur, heartbroken? He doesn’t even know if Arthur’s had an actual relationship. God knows Eames hasn’t, not in five years at least. Maybe longer. Maybe he should, though, so that his mother could stop worrying. But it’s not like he ever meets new people. Well, that was obviously a lie. But it’s not like he meets people he might date, like, attractive men who aren’t straight or taken or obsessive about obeying the law or too dull or too dangerous or too clingy or absolutely terrified of commitment. And that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have sex sometimes. Because he does. With men. Actual, living men, not projections in a well-planned sex dream, which is fine, too. He likes to think he’s fairly charming when he tries to be, and generally, it’s not a problem to find someone to come home with him for a nice fuck. At least when he’s not feeling too picky. Or romantic. Or thoughtful. But it’s impossible to think about finding anyone who’d sit on the sofa with him, without trousers, their knees touching.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says in a slightly worried tone, and Eames realises he’s been just sitting there, staring at Arthur. “I don’t know what to do in every situation. I don’t know what to do now.”  
  
“You’re doing just fine, darling.”  
  
“I don’t know why you call me that.”  
  
“Probably I’m just trying to piss you off.”  
  
“But,” Arthur says and clears his throat, “what if I don’t get pissed off? Are you going to stop?”  
  
“What else could I call you?” Eames asks. “Arthur?”  
  
Arthur smiles a little.  
  
“Feels odd.”  
  
“That’s my name.”  
  
“I could try it.”  
  
“You can call me anything you like,” Arthur says, “I’ll be pissed off with you anyway.” But he’s still smiling.  
  
  
**  
  
  
In the morning, Eames finds Arthur still asleep on the sofa. His hair is a mess, his mouth is half-open, and there’s one leg sticking out from under the blanket. But at least he’s here. He didn’t sneak out in the night this time.  
  
Eames starts making them breakfast. It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning, early as fuck, but yesterday, Arthur could hardly last until midnight before he started looking like he was going to fall asleep sitting on the sofa. It wouldn’t have been a hardship, though, to have Arthur fall asleep right there, maybe leaning against Eames’ shoulder. Not to brag but some people apparently find his shoulders quite nice. But he ended up suggesting that they’d go to bed early and watched Arthur brushing his teeth and settling on the sofa, before he retreated to the bedroom and then lay there, awake and wondering what the hell was happening.  
  
Now he couldn’t go back to sleep even if he wanted to, and anyway it seems possible that Arthur’s going to wake up soon. When Eames sneaked to the bathroom around one at night, Arthur was already snoring. He makes coffee and by the time he’s pouring it in two cups, he can hear Arthur climbing out of the sofa.  
  
“Good morning,” he says, when there’re hesitant footsteps stopping behind his back.  
  
“Good morning,” Arthur says. Eames glances over his shoulder. Arthur’s standing in the doorway in nothing but boxers. Eames’ boxers, of course. “Are you making breakfast?”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, trying not to stare at the abstract direction of Arthur’s hips. He’s not _twelve._ And Arthur already looks a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to another.  
  
“Eames, you don’t need to –“  
  
“Did you think I was making breakfast for you?” Eames cuts in. “That’s sad. I’m going to eat all this by myself.”  
  
Arthur blinks.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says. The name feels so odd in his mouth that he has to catch himself before he lets it show on his face, “of course I made breakfast for you. Come on. You sat on my sofa the whole evening and listened my usual bullshit very patiently.”  
  
“It wasn’t bullshit,” Arthur says. He looks relieved. “But I can’t believe you’ve read so many romance novels.”  
  
“There’s always a happy ending.”  
  
“That’s why you aren’t supposed to like them,” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound like he’s serious, though. He sounds more like he knows Eames likes to argue about this and enjoys indulging him. “They aren’t _real._”  
  
“And why the hell would I want my fiction to be_ real?_” Eames asks. “Do you eat fried eggs?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Too bad, because I don’t have any. Did you lose your shirt?”  
  
“It’s your shirt,” Arthur says, his voice suddenly sharp, “and no. But you weren’t wearing a shirt, and it’s not like it’s cold in here, so I thought –“  
  
“Brilliant,” Eames says, and it’s wonderful, seeing the relief on Arthur’s face. The poor bastard thought Eames was complaining about him being half-naked. That’s just stupid. “Finally, you’re learning how to dress properly.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you apparently don’t like to wear clothes at home,” Arthur says, his eyes moving back and forth on Eames’ face, “because your wardrobe really is a turn-off.”  
  
“Like that would slow you down.”  
  
“I guess not. I’m easy.”  
  
Eames thinks about that for a few seconds. “No, you’re not.”  
  
Arthur frowns at him. “What?”  
  
“You’re not _easy._ You’re anything but easy.”  
  
“Oh?” Arthur walks over to him, takes one of the coffee mugs on the counter, and doesn’t back away. “And why’s that?”  
  
“I’ve never heard of you sleeping with anyone.”  
  
“And why exactly would you’ve heard of it? I’m not that loud.”  
  
Eames leans back, because Arthur’s standing close to him and he feels a little flushed. The goddamn heat. “I meant, you never hit on a colleague after a particularly great job. Or a particularly bad one. Because that kind of things tend not to stay secrets.”  
  
“Maybe that’s why I don’t do that,” Arthur says, “and who would’ve I hit on? You?”  
  
“For example,” Eames says, only his voice comes out a little thin.  
  
“You would’ve turned me down.”  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says and then realises it might’ve been a mistake. Or if not a mistake, a little too much anyway. “I mean, you don’t know that. How can you be certain I wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to shag you?”  
  
“Because you always flirt with me,” Arthur says slowly, “but you don’t mean it. You’ve never done anything about it.”  
  
“You aren’t interested.”  
  
Arthur chews on his lower lip. “I’m standing in your kitchen, wearing nothing but your boxers.”  
  
Eames stares at Arthur.  
  
“The breakfast looks great,” Arthur says after a few seconds. “Very good. Maybe we should –“  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, taking a step away and reaching for the plates in the cupboard, “yes, of course. Right away. You must be hungry.” After that, he tries to keep his mouth full of food. He has a feeling that there’s something going on and he badly wants to know what it is. Not badly enough that he’d ask Arthur, though.  
  
  
**  
  
Eames takes Arthur to his favourite restaurant in the evening. It’s not a date. They’re just both hungry and maybe a little tired after sitting on the sofa for so long and watching so many movies. And he’s quite certain that if he let Arthur have a dinner by himself, Arthur would find the dullest restaurant in the whole city. He’s doing Arthur a favour here, that’s what he’s doing, alright? It’s not a date, and if he took quite a few glances at the mirror before they left, that doesn’t make it a date.  
  
But Arthur’s wearing his fancy trousers and a very nice shirt he washed in the sink early in the afternoon, when Eames was in living room, complaining loudly about how the lover in _The Dangerous Lover on the Mountain_ wasn’t dangerous at all. Arthur has a tie that he’s been loosening three times already, not that Eames has been counting, of course. All in all, Arthur’s looking very nice, his hair all fixed like he’s on his way to a business meeting and not to a date with Eames, only it’s not really a _date._ Arthur just happens to look very good in this light, the blue-ish dusk of the early evening, the city lights reflecting on his skin, and if Eames happens to steal glances, then what? Arthur doesn’t mind. Arthur doesn’t probably even notice. If Arthur noticed, he’d pick at Eames about it, and then Eames could laugh about it and call Arthur _darling._  
  
In the restaurant, Arthur asks what Eames would recommend, and Eames orders for them both. Arthur doesn’t seem to mind, only asks for how long Eames has had his place in Mombasa, and Eames tells him. Arthur seems surprised. Eames is surprised as well. But he’s already said it, so there’s nothing to be done and besides, Arthur’s better at finding information than Eames is at hiding it. Arthur could’ve found out by himself if he’d wanted to.  
  
“So,” Eames says next, “do you have any family?”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it to put a forkful of food in. It takes some time. Eames waits, not sure why he doesn’t say that he was only joking. It’d make the silence easier.  
  
“My mom and dad are separated,” Arthur says finally, watching Eames carefully as if he’s wondering if Eames can bear to hear this kind of shocking information. “They both live in the States. And I have two brothers.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. He should say something about the weather next. That wouldn’t get too personal. “Are you close?”  
  
“We were. But I… It’s difficult when I’m travelling so much. And can’t talk to them about what I do.”  
  
“They don’t know.”  
  
“Of course not.” Arthur gives him a sharp glance. “Do your siblings know?”  
  
“I don’t have any,” Eames says, clearing his throat. “And dad passed away five years ago. Mom sends me texts asking me to call her. She keeps saying that she doesn’t know what’s going on in my life. Which she doesn’t, thank god. But what she really wants to hear is that I’d be coming back to England for good or that I would’ve at least managed to find someone to be with. She’s worried that I’ll die alone.”  
  
He stabs his salad with his fork and gives Arthur a smile. Arthur looks worried, so maybe the smile didn’t come out exactly right.  
  
“Maybe I should have you call her,” Eames says. It feels like the smile is stuck on his face. “You could tell her that I’m very charming and that there’s no way I’m going to die alone because I hit on men like flies. He'd believe you. You can be very convincing when you want to be, darling.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s a clever thing to tell her,” Arthur says. “And I thought you were trying out using my name.”  
  
Eames swallows. “Sorry.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “You don’t need to _apologise,_ I just –“  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, “so, _so_, how do you like your food?”  
  
Arthur blinks at him. “Fine.”  
  
“Fine?”  
  
“It’s good, Eames,” Arthur says slowly. “Maybe it’s easier for my mom because, you know, there’re three of us. My younger brother is married with two kids, so she can focus on them.”  
  
“That’s probably good.”  
  
“Yeah. I think she’s worried about me. Probably they all are. But it’s just something that we don’t really talk about.”  
  
“What is?”  
  
“My life,” Arthur says. “It’s for the best. But sometimes I think they don’t know me at all.”  
  
“I know you,” Eames says and then bites his lip, wondering why the hell he said that. Arthur’s going to laugh at him. But Arthur’s just staring at him, apparently having forgotten he’s supposed to be eating.  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Well, there’s not that much to know, besides the work. And you know about the work.”  
  
“I bet you’re wrong.”  
  
“It’s not like I have many interesting hobbies.”  
  
“Not like myself, then,” Eames says, pulling his shoulders back and trying to make his smile just right, teasing but warm. He’s quite certain Arthur will notice the effort and appreciate it. “You don’t excel at reading romance novels and watching movies made for teenagers in foreign languages.”  
  
“Sadly, no,” Arthur says in a very serious tone. Eames appreciates that. “Those are very respectful hobbies.”  
  
“Indeed,” Eames says, smiling. Then he realises they have both emptied their plates and perhaps it’s a little weird that they’re just sitting here, talking about their lives. They aren’t even on a date. “Dessert?”  
  
“Sounds wonderful,” Arthur says, watching him, “but I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat anything in an hour or so.”  
  
“Maybe we should go back to my place, then.”  
  
“Yeah. Sounds good.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says and stands up. He’s smiling again and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because of the way Arthur’s looking at him, like Arthur’s _delighted_ Eames asked him to come over, which is stupid, because _of course_ Eames asked him to come over, he wasn’t going to ditch Arthur after dinner, was he, and also… Also Arthur’s kind of staying with him at the moment, isn’t he? _Obviously_ Arthur’s coming back to home with him. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean that he’d be planning to kiss Arthur the first thing when they get the door locked behind them and then drag Arthur to the bedroom and get rid of that ridiculous but surprisingly nice-looking tie.  
  
“Eames? Are you alright? You kind of… froze.”  
  
“What? No. Yeah. Of course. I was just… thinking.”  
  
“Thinking?” Arthur asks, looking suspicious.  
  
“Yes,” Eames says pointedly and places his palm on the low of Arthur’s back, just to gently remind Arthur that they’re heading out to the street. The fabric under his hand is warm and a little damp.  
  
“Eames?”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, pulling his hand away. “Sorry.”  
  
“I didn’t… I just meant, maybe we should be walking.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. So, you didn’t –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says in a steady voice and starts walking, “I’m perfectly capable of removing your arm if I don’t like it that you touch me with it.”  
  
Eames glances at Arthur, but Arthur’s smiling. Oh, god, Arthur’s smiling at him and it’s making him feel a little light in the head. “That’s comforting. Thank you for reminding me, dear.”  
  
“Thank you for reminding me, _Arthur_.”  
  
“Thank you for reminding me, dear _Arthur_,” Eames says.  
  
“Oh, fucking hell,” Arthur says, but he looks happy.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So,” Eames says when they’re at home, the front door is locked and Arthur’s standing in the middle of the living room, tugging at his tie, “how’s the sofa?”  
  
“It’s fine,” Arthur says and then goes suddenly very still.  
  
“I have wine,” Eames says and walks straight to the kitchen. “Red or white?”  
  
“Red.”  
  
“Great. Want me to rub your shoulders?”  
  
Arthur doesn’t answer. Eames focuses on pouring the wine, then on the clock ticking on the dresser, then on the scar on the back of his hand. He thought it had already faded but apparently not. Then he proceeds to thinking that there’s no reason to be nervous about this. He’s just offering Arthur a drink. And a shoulder massage. And Arthur’s clearly contemplating Eames’ motives, so Eames doesn’t need to.  
  
“If you feel like it,” Arthur finally says. He sounds calm but determined, not unlike on a job when everything’s getting messy and they just have to go through it.  
  
“Just let me have a glass of wine first,” Eames says, “to build up the courage.”  
  
“Sure, fine,” Arthur says. Eames means to go back to the living room, but Arthur meets him in the half-way. He gives Arthur the glass of wine and Arthur takes it, not quite looking him in the eyes. “Me, too.”  
  
“I hope the wine’s going to be enough for you,” Eames says. “I don’t think I have anything stronger.”  
  
“I’m not sure anything’s going to be enough.”  
  
“It’s just a shoulder massage.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” Arthur says, sipping his wine. “Should we go to the sofa?”  
  
“Yeah. Unless you’re hungry.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. That’s goddamn adorable. Eames clears his throat, follows Arthur to the living room and sits down on the sofa not quite as far from Arthur as he could. He thinks he can see pearls of sweat glistening on Arthur’s forehead and on the back of his neck.  
  
“You can take your shirt off if you want to.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath, “what’re we doing?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eames says and pulls out his own shirt. “But it’s too hot in here. I’m going to undress.”  
  
Arthur’s watching him. “You’re stupid.”  
  
“You’re hot,” he says and grins a bit lazily. “And it’s not like you couldn’t remove my arm if you had to.”  
  
“I’m not worried about you getting handsy,” Arthur says, sips his wine and places the glass on the coffee table. “That’s never been a problem before.”  
  
“Maybe I’m a little slow.”  
  
“Maybe you just like to talk.”  
  
“It’s not like that.”  
  
“Really?” Arthur turns to him. “What’s it like, then?”  
  
Eames chews on his lower lip. It’s kind of intimidating, sitting here without a shirt when Arthur’s still wearing everything, including the stupid tie.  
  
“Arthur, you’re lovely. At least take off the tie.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds, then undoes the tie and reaches for his glass of wine. Eames is drinking his in a pace that might look like he’d be trying to get drunk.  
  
“When was the last time you were with someone?” Arthur asks.  
  
“I don’t know.” Thank god for the wine. “Five weeks ago.”  
  
“I meant, when was the last time you had a relationship.”  
  
“And how do you know that wasn’t what was happening five weeks ago?”  
  
“Because I’m keeping a track on you, you idiot.”  
  
“Why’re you asking, anyway?”  
  
“No reason,” Arthur says, and it’s terrifying that he sounds like he means it, only he can’t mean it. There’s just no way Arthur would ask anything for no reason at all. There’s _always _a reason. Eames wants to think that for Arthur, there’s always a reason. “I have to warn you,” Arthur says, drinking his wine, “that I’m pretty picky about shoulder massages.”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says. He has an odd feeling, like his skin is getting a little too tight. Maybe it’s the wine. Or the dinner. Or Arthur. _Goddamn. _“I won’t be too rough on you.”  
  
“I can take rough,” Arthur says, his eyes fixed on Eames’. “Just don’t go easy on me.”  
  
“I would never.”  
  
“You _are _being easy on me.”  
  
Eames clears his throat. “That’s just… I’m trying to be _nice._ Because this is nice. And you’re nice.”  
  
“You know I’m not _nice._”  
  
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I meant that I like it when you’re here.”  
  
He sees Arthur biting his lip. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Darling, _Arthur, _are you ready for the massage?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says in a firm voice, sets the glass aside and stars undoing his buttons.  
  
“Good,” Eames says, “me neither. Just give me a heads-up if you’re going to remove my arm after all.”  
  
“Just shut up,” Arthur says and turns away from Eames. “You sound nervous and you’re making me nervous.”  
  
“I don’t sound fucking _nervous._”  
  
Arthur laughs and then falls suddenly quiet, and Eames tries to think about something to say but can’t figure out anything else than _I’m not nervous._ And Arthur’s sitting in front of Eames, his shoulders moving slowly as he breathes in and out. There’re scars on Arthur’s back that Eames doesn’t remember seeing, and maybe he's drunk but it’s annoying and intoxicating at the same time that there’re so many details about Arthur that he doesn’t have memorised yet. He always knew Arthur was full of details, he just… missed it somehow. He didn’t concentrate enough. He didn’t realise there was a reason he should concentrate on Arthur. But now he’s concentrating, and Arthur’s perfectly still as if he’s waiting for Eames to do something, and isn’t that crazy, too? Arthur never waits for Eames. Arthur doesn’t have patience for that. Arthur just snaps at Eames and goes on.  
  
Eames presses the flat of his palm against Arthur’s back, right in between his shoulder blades.  
  
Arthur lets out a ragged breath.  
  
_Just a shoulder massage,_ Eames thinks pointedly, _just a shoulder massage. Just a tiny shoulder massage between colleagues._  
  
But it doesn’t feel like that. _Don’t go easy on me,_ Arthur said a moment ago, and Eames tries to remember that. He certainly doesn’t want Arthur to think that he’s afraid to touch Arthur. And he’s not going _easy _on Arthur, what a ridiculous thing to say, he doesn’t go _easy_, he’s a very manly man, in a good way, and a criminal and a thief, no one would accuse him of going _easy_ on _anyone_, and that’s what he’s thinking about when he presses his hands firmer against Arthur’s skin. And he’s not _nervous._ He’s just a little excited, because Arthur’s so close to him, letting Eames touch him all over his shoulders and his neck and his back, breathing in a steady careful rhythm. Eames pushes harder and Arthur just leans into his touch. _Oh, god._ Maybe Arthur would let him do _anything. _Maybe, if he leaned forward and kissed Arthur on the back of his neck -  
  
He blinks.  
  
“Eames?” Arthur asks in a quiet voice. He sounds nervous.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Eames says and gets back on with the massage. That’s what they’re doing. Just a friendly massage… “Arthur, am I doing this right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Not being too gentle?”  
  
“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to be fucking _gentle_,” Arthur says, his back tensing up. Eames pushes his thumbs at the edges of Arthur’s shoulder blades and bites his lip when Arthur flinches. “I just…”  
  
“What did you _just?_” Eames asks, when Arthur drops the rest.  
  
“I don’t know what you _want._”  
  
“I don’t want anything,” Eames says and then frowns, because that was a lie, wasn’t it? A huge lie, which is probably what Arthur’s laughing about. Eames places his hands onto Arthur’s neck, carefully, since he’s not trying to imply that he might strangle Arthur or anything. But Arthur stops laughing. “I just meant that I’m not trying to kidnap you or anything,” he says, leaning closer. Not close enough to brush his chest against Arthur’s back, though, because what would be the point? What, indeed? “I don’t have a hidden agenda. You’re just nice.”  
  
“You keep giving me this _look_,” Arthur says, his voice rumbling against Eames’ hands, even though Eames can barely make sense of the words. “You always have. You look at me like you want… something of me. And then I fly here from Switzerland…”  
  
“Thank you for the chocolate,” Eames says. His voice comes out hoarse.  
  
“And you don’t fucking _do _anything about it. And then I come again. And you take me to a drink and then you have me sleeping on your fucking _sofa…_”  
  
Eames thinks about that. “Did you want to sleep in the bed? I’m sorry, I thought the sofa was fine.”  
  
“It was _fine_,” Arthur says, sounding breathless now. Hopefully Eames isn’t strangling him. He tries to let go, just in case, but Arthur grabs his wrist and squeezes. “I knew it was a mistake to come here. But I kept thinking about you and it was driving me crazy, and then I took the job in St. Petersburg but it was so dull I thought about you even more, and I just couldn’t stand it. And then you ask me to stay with you and lend me clothes and rub my shoulders and take me on a fucking date –“  
  
“It wasn’t a date,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur laughs in a sharp tone.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Eames says, “I _know _it was a lot like a date, but I just couldn’t help it, you’re so lovely and clever and irrationally good in everything and you look so good all the time, and I kind of want to kiss you, and then you dressed up so nicely and let me order for you and make conversation about our families, so is it a wonder that I might’ve had trouble trying to remember it wasn’t a date? No, it isn’t. It definitely isn’t. And it's all your fault. And my mom’s. But mostly yours. You keep showing up on my door, so it’s just a reflex that I begin to wait for you, right? It’s not my fault.”  
  
He takes a deep breath and then checks that he’s still not strangling Arthur. Arthur’s breathing. Great. But Arthur’s also frozen in his place, everything in him tense like he’s ready to pull a gun at Eames. Eames very carefully lets go of Arthur’s neck. It seems improbable that Arthur’s carrying a gun right now, but why take a risk?  
  
“And I don’t have that many friends,” Eames says a few seconds later, when Arthur still hasn’t done anything violent, “so you can’t really blame me, if I have become a little emotionally compromised after you sat on my sofa wearing my Wonder Woman t-shirt and –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur cuts in, “what did you say?”  
  
Eames blinks. “That you were wearing my Wonder Woman shirt.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “before that. Much before that.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“You have to.”  
  
“I can’t remember,” Eames says, “I said a lot. Maybe it was a thing about my mom? I know she means well, but the way she’s constantly asking me when I’m going to find someone, it’s making me feel like I need to find someone, and that’s just unnerving.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says and turns to look at Eames over his shoulder, slowly, as if he’s afraid what he’ll see. “It wasn’t that. It was…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “You said you want to kiss me.”  
  
Eames opens his mouth and then closes it again. He doesn’t remember saying that. He might remember _thinking _about it in a few occasions in the past two days, and once in a while before that, but surely Arthur hasn’t found a way to read his thoughts.  
  
“Maybe I’ve been thinking about it,” Eames says very slowly. If Arthur gets angry, Eames will deny everything.  
  
“You have?” Arthur asks, not sounding angry. He sounds… Eames isn’t exactly sure what he sounds like, but he’s surely leaning towards Eames and staring at Eames’ mouth.  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, “but it’s not like it…” _means anything_, he should say. But Arthur’s kind of licking his lips now. And Arthur’s _right there._ And half-naked. And sweaty. And smells wonderful. And flew straight to Mombasa from goddamn St. Petersburg. “It’s not like it’s surprising. Because if I had to get locked into a cabin on a mountain for the winter with one person, you’d definitely be one of my favourite options.”  
  
“Really?” Arthur asks, looking Eames in the eyes now. “Who else?”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath but can’t think of anyone.  
  
“If I had to get locked into a fucking cabin for some unknown reason, I’d like you to get locked in with me.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, biting his lip. “Arthur, that’s just… very sweet. That’s almost what happened in _The Dangerous Lover in the Cabin._”  
  
“I can be sweet,” Arthur says, his voice so quiet it’s almost terrifying. Shit, it _is _terrifying, as is the way Arthur places his palm on Eames’ knee. It’s like a question. And Arthur’s waiting for an answer. Too bad that Eames doesn’t know what the question is. “I can be rough, too. Whatever you like.”  
  
“Whatever I like,” Eames says in a blank voice. It doesn’t make sense. Arthur never asks what Eames likes. Arthur always seems to know without asking. For example, the chocolate Arthur brought from Switzerland was _incredible._  
  
“Well, I have a list of things I don’t do,” Arthur says and then adds, “in bed,” which doesn’t clarify it at all. “I have it written down somewhere. I can give you a copy or just tell you what’s in it. I don’t think I’m dull, I’m just… a little specific. But I could try something new for you if you insist. Maybe. And there’s a lot of things I like, too, so we should be just fine.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, “are you talking about sex?”  
  
Arthur frowns at him. “Yes.”  
  
Eames frowns right back at the goddamn bastard. “Why didn’t you say so?”  
  
“I thought it was pretty clear,” Arthur says, sounding a little angry now. “You said you wanted to kiss me.”  
  
“Yeah, but that was…” Eames pauses. “I really want to kiss you.”  
  
“Then fucking kiss me already,” Arthur says, sounding angrier than when Eames ate his sandwich in Seattle in 2008.  
  
“Really? You aren’t going to remove my arm?”  
  
“No, but I might if you don’t kiss me,” Arthur says and then flinches. “Obviously, I didn’t mean that. I just really want you to kiss me.”  
  
“But why can’t you kiss me?” Eames asks. He has a vague feeling that if there ever was a point in this line of conversation, he’s lost it. But he has to keep on talking, because he can’t figure out what to do if he stops, and it seems that Arthur’s expecting him to kiss Arthur, which is kind of terrifying. He wants to, though, so badly it’s making him feel slightly nauseous.  
  
“Why can’t I kiss you?” Arthur repeats in a very dangerous voice. Thank god for the lack of firearms in the reach of hand.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, trying to sound braver than he is. He’s just a criminal and a thief, for fuck’s sake. There’re things he can’t deal with. “You have a mouth. And you’re sitting right there. You could do it as easily as I.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds. “I can’t. I don’t have the fucking guts to do it. You might push me away.”  
  
“What? I _wouldn’t_.”  
  
“I’ve been sleeping on your sofa in my underwear and you haven’t made a move.”  
  
“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”  
  
“Well, I fucking want you to,” Arthur says, “I want you to make all the moves, and quickly, because I’m kind of losing my nerve here, and if I have to fly to Chicago and back before you actually kiss me, I’m going to lose my mind.”  
  
“Chicago?”  
  
“I have a place there.”  
  
“I know that, but… why would you fly to Chicago and back?”  
  
“So that I can knock on your door again and we can pretend this conversation never happened and then I can lift you on the fucking wall and kiss your stupid mouth.”  
  
Eames laughs. “You can’t lift me on the _wall,_ I know you think you’re very strong but you’re also tiny, and besides –“ And then he has to stop talking, because Arthur’s kissing him. It’s a very weird kiss. Only their mouths are touching. But Eames isn’t going to start goddamn complaining about the way Arthur’s kissing him, is he? He always knew Arthur was a bit odd. So, he just kisses the idiot back. He’s not certain if Arthur wants him to be gentle or rough or something else, but that’s just fine because he can’t think anyway.  
  
He’s kissing _Arthur._  
  
Arthur’s kissing _him. _Of all people. Of all men, to be more accurate. Of all – whatever. Arthur’s kissing Eames on the mouth like he fucking _means it._ Eames should probably say something sweet.  
  
“I want to blow you,” he says when Arthur pulls back to breathe, “or whatever you like, and I want you in my bed and I want to cuddle the hell out of you, and then I want you on the sofa, naked, I want you in my lap and I want to watch Harry Potter with you.”  
  
“What?” Arthur asks in a breathless voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “don’t you fucking know what you look like? You’re _amazing._ I’ve been telling you that for _years._”  
  
Arthur laughs, only it sounds a little muffled because he’s kissing Eames again. “Yeah, you kind of have.”  
  
“And I meant it,” Eames says, “I just didn’t have a clue we could _kiss, _I didn’t realise you’d want to kiss me –“  
  
“You’re stupid.”  
  
“_You_ are stupid.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur says, kind of sitting in Eames’ lap now. “We’ve been talking for _ages._ I want to… Can you fuck me?”  
  
“Maybe,” Eames says, “if we’re quick about it.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
They aren’t quick about it. It takes ages, mostly because Arthur pushes his hand into Eames’ pants and Eames forgets about the fucking and keeps kissing Arthur and touching everything he can reach, including Arthur’s cock that’s just _perfect_, a perfect little cock, well, not literally _little_, he didn’t mean that, he just meant that it’s _nice, _it’s fucking _nice _that he gets to memorise every detail about Arthur unravelling in his hands. And then Arthur apparently remembers about the fucking, pulls his hand away and climbs out of Eames’ lap saying something about condoms and lube and bedroom, and Eames tries to find all of those but it’s difficult. When he finally manages, Arthur’s already naked in his bed, staring at him and saying slightly offensive comments about his tattoos. He doesn’t have a goddamn chance. He gets two fingers in Arthur’s arse and then he comes on the sheets and on the back of Arthur’s very lovely thighs.  
  
“That was quick,” Arthur says in a frighteningly soft voice and strokes Eames’ head as Eames keeps kissing the slightly salty skin on Arthur’s hips, trying to catch his breath, his self-esteem and whatever is remaining of his sanity.  
  
So, it definitely takes ages. After Eames has blown Arthur, they take a shower together and then drink wine in the bed and talk about people they both hate, and then, at some point of it, it just happens that Eames’ fingers are running low on Arthur’s back and he’s not so certain anymore that he wouldn’t be able to get hard again. There’s a tiny setback later when he puts the condom on and his cock forgets it was perfectly ready to go a second ago, but Arthur keeps kissing him and writhing under him until he stops thinking about his useless cock, and eventually he has his cock buried in Arthur and Arthur’s saying the most absurd things, something about Eames’ chin and something about how he’s been waiting for Eames to do this for _years_, and didn’t Eames really _know? _The bastard only stops talking when Eames’ wraps his fingers around his cock.  
  
It's lovely. Sleeping with Arthur is just lovely, and when they’ve taken a shower _again _and are drinking wine in bed _again _and it’s past midnight and Eames is sure he’s going to fall asleep any moment, he can’t remember why he hasn’t done this before. Why the hell didn’t he kiss Arthur on the mouth when Arthur knocked on his door for the first time? He should’ve. But he’s sometimes a little slow with things. His mother says he’s _thoughtful_, but perhaps he’s just a little stupid when it comes to things like this.  
  
“You aren’t stupid,” Arthur says, when he says all this to Arthur. His head is resting on Arthur’s thigh and if he wasn’t almost asleep, he probably couldn’t resist the urge to lick the damp skin still faintly smelling of sex. “I should’ve said something.”  
  
“I thought you thought I was annoying.”  
  
“I _thought _you were annoying,” Arthur says, “oh god, I can’t even tell you how annoying you were. But partly because I liked you so much and couldn’t deal with it. And you just kept flirting at me and I wanted to bang you against the wall.”  
  
“You could’ve,” Eames says and frowns, “well, maybe not against the wall. I have some joint ache in my hips sometimes.”  
  
“I kept thinking that it wouldn’t work out,” Arthur says, “you wouldn’t like me for real, you wouldn’t want to be with me for real, and I didn’t know if I could do a relationship, I still don’t know, and I thought that if you wanted me you’d make a move eventually, but you didn’t, and I fucking flew here from _Switzerland –_“  
  
“You want a relationship,” Eames says, reaching to run his fingers on Arthur’s stomach. Arthur has a lovely stomach.  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Yeah. I want a relationship.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, “because I’m going to need another try at fucking you. I’m going to find all your buttons and push every one of them at the same time. And figuring that out is going to take a while. Years, maybe.”  
  
Arthur laughs. “Oh, god, this is bad. You’re terrible.”  
  
“Maybe I could give your number to my mother,” Eames says, “so she could call you instead of me. That’d work out splendidly.”  
  
“Yeah, because I’m just the kind of a respectful boyfriend every mother wants for her son.”  
  
“You’re quite well at pretending.”  
  
“So are you.”  
  
“Not when it’s about my _mother_,” Eames says. It’s too hot in here and he needs to piss but he can’t bear to move.  
  
“You’re falling asleep.”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“Yes, you are,” Arthur says, stroking his hair. “If you fall asleep on me, I’m going to push you to the floor.”  
  
“You can’t. I’m big and you’re tiny.”  
  
“I’m not _tiny._”  
  
“Do you like it?” Eames asks in a voice that admittedly sounds a little sleepy. “That I’m big?”  
  
“I don’t resent it,” Arthur says slowly. “But maybe what really made me fall for you is your unquestionable taste in clothes.”  
  
“I knew that.”  
  
“And your incredible sense of humour.”  
  
“Well, that too.”  
  
“I just like you,” Arthur says. “I don’t know why. Now get off me, I need to piss.”  
  
“Not a chance,” Eames says and after a few seconds, finds himself lying on the floor. It doesn’t matter. He has a nice view of Arthur’s bare arse as Arthur walks to the bathroom.  
  
He wakes up in the morning. The sun is shining on his face and he needs to get to the toilet _right now._ Also, some of his muscles are sore, but it mightn’t be because he slept on the floor. He’s going to need to talk to Arthur about letting him sleep like that. But later. Now he stands up and sits down on the edge of the bed, just for a second. Arthur’s still asleep, naked, lying on his stomach and snoring lightly. He looks happy to be in Eames’ bed.  
  
Eames bites his lip and goes to the toilet. He has a weird feeling that he might be falling in love with Arthur. Just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> You can say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!


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